


Night Watch

by Sholio



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Afterlife, Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Tearjerker, but kinda, not really a fixit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 23:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11172003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: Strange things can happen, out there among the stars. Peter has an unexpected encounter on the night shift.





	Night Watch

**Author's Note:**

> Edited to add absolutely GORGEOUS fanart from [dis4daria](http://dis4daria.tumblr.com/post/162215085239/guess-who-is-still-not-over-guardians-of-the)! (Posted at the end of the story, as it illustrates a somewhat-spoilery bit.) It is AMAZING and you should all see it. :D

Ever since Peter was a kid, he'd liked taking the night watch.

Technically, in deep space, there was no night or day. But even on ships as loosely organized as Ravager ships tended to be -- or now the Milano and its successor -- people tended to fall into a habit of being awake, for the most part, at the same time. It was easier to be in sync; it made raids easier, made the cooking roster easier, just generally made things run smoother.

But this also led to a roughly established "day" and "night" on the ship, therefore a necessity for someone to keep an eye on things while most of the crew were asleep. There would always be a handful of people out of sync with the rest; on _his_ ship, Peter had noticed, Rocket was frequently that person. But they all took their turn, when the demons got to be too much.

Since everything that had happened with Ego ... with Yondu ... Peter had gotten in the habit of spending a lot of time on the flight deck by himself. 

Back on the _Eclector_ , he had appreciated the quiet and solitude of the off-hours watch, especially the relative lack of people threatening to eat him and/or trying to rough him up and break his stuff when Yondu wasn't around to rough _them_ up in turn and snarl about the Ravagers' code. (Why had he never noticed how _much_ time Yondu had actually spent defending him when he was a kid?) It was peaceful up there when it was just him, listening to his Walkman and looking up at the stars, sometimes playing a little with the toys on Yondu's steering console, when no one could see. And sometimes Yondu would wander up to the flight deck when Peter was up there, and they'd just sit in peaceful solitude, lost in their own thoughts, Peter with his music, Yondu with whatever went on in his head most of the time. No demands, no bickering, nothing asked of each other. Just a silent companionship that didn't need words.

Those had been good nights, some of them.

And now he had a ship of his own, a family of his own ... but the solitude of the pilot's chair, just him and the stars, still called to him.

Peter poked at the toys delicately adhered to the steering console. There were only two of them at the moment. Kraglin and Peter had each picked one up. It wasn't something they'd talked about beforehand, but Peter had seen that little four-eyed puppy thing in a market stall on their last supply run, and it made him think of -- made him -- anyway, he'd walked past it three or four times before he finally broke down and thought hey, it's not that many units and they were doing okay for cash right now.

So now there was a new collection growing slowly. Peter wasn't sure if it counted as a memorial, hadn't even really figured out yet if having the toys there was worth the way it stuck a dull knife in a wound that was just starting to heal every time he looked at them. But it felt right, somehow. It felt like they ought to be there.

He put in his earbuds and leaned his head against the padded back of the pilot's chair. He was so tired his bones ached, but nightmares chased him out of sleep whenever he started to dip below its velvety black surface: Ego's planet swallowing his friends; the crackle of ice on Yondu's coat under his clutching, desperate hands; his mother reaching for him before her fingers fell away forever ...

"How you doin', kid?"

The raspy, familiar voice came from behind him. Peter jerked violently, fumbled the earbuds, managed to catch the Zune before it slid to the floor. He didn't want to look, and at the same time, he knew he couldn't stop himself. Cautiously, he leaned forward in the padded cradle of the pilot's chair and looked over his shoulder.

Yondu was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, one arm thrown casually over his knees. He looked exactly as he had in life, long leather coat and all, and Peter couldn't help noticing he was wearing the Ravager flame patch again. He also had the flat, mohawk-style fin that he'd worn for most of Peter's life.

"Am I asleep?" Peter asked -- a little hopeful, a little desperate.

"Sure are. And you look like you could use it, too."

It shouldn't have hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. _Dreaming. I'm only dreaming._ Because ... what _had_ he thought, anyway? That everything _else_ had been a dream? That the dead could come back, just walk back into life like nothing ever happened?

But hell, if this was a dream, it was a lot better than most of his dreams lately. Why not enjoy it while it lasted.

Peter left the Zune on the seat of the pilot's chair and stood, slowly. "So if this is my dream, I get to decide what happens next, right?"

Yondu looked up at him, and _god,_ it was such pitch-perfect Yondu, that mildly sardonic expression. "Guess so."

"Good," Peter said between his teeth, and then he did something he'd never have done, never have even thought of doing if this weren't a dream: closing the space between them, he clenched his jaw and smacked Yondu hard across the side of the head, the exact same kind of open-palmed slap that had rattled his teeth on more occasions than he could remember when he was a kid.

As soon as he'd done it, Peter skipped a few steps back, because this might be a dream but he wasn't actually suicidal. A glissade of red light ran through Yondu's implant and eyes, but mostly he just looked more startled than Peter had ever seen him.

"What the _hell_ , boy?" The arrow zipped free of his coat, hovering in front of Peter, who eyed it and wondered how much it hurt to be skewered through the chest in a dream. 

Which didn't stop him from running off at the mouth, as usual.

"'Cause that's what you always used to do to me whenever I did something stupid, you fucking enormous blue hypocrite!"

A fascinating parade of low-key emotions passed across Yondu's face, settling finally on amusement twitching the corner of his mouth before he lifted the flap of his coat and whistled the arrow back to its place at his side. Peter had managed to keep his spine stiff and not give way before the arrow -- he hadn't backed down against that kind of threat from Yondu in a decade or more -- but he couldn't help relaxing a little once the thing was safely tucked away.

"You got balls, Quill," Yondu said, and he was grinning openly now. "Always did. C'mere and sit down. Can't talk to you standing way over there."

"Sounds like the sort of thing you'd say right before you kick my ass." But after a pause, Peter dropped down beside him, as invited. It wouldn't be the first time Yondu had kicked his ass halfway to Betelgeuse and back again, and at least this time wouldn't leave bruises when he woke up.

Woke up -- and that reminder pushed a hot, hard surge of grief into his throat, because this wasn't _real_ , and that was the worst part of all. 

This wasn't the first time he'd dreamed about Yondu since -- that, but the other times had been nightmares (deeply unpleasant, but not surprising), or average dreams about his childhood on the _Eclector._ And this was something else. A different kind of nightmare, in a way, because everything seemed so solid, so real. He almost wished a swarm of space weevils would come flying through the wall, or his best friend from first grade would turn up, just to prove that this _was_ a dream and make it stop feeling like he was really sitting here, with Yondu, in the same kind of companionable silence they used to share on those other night watches, long ago ...

Damn it. He'd thought he was ... well, not _over_ this, not exactly. He knew from his mother's death that you never really got over the deaths of people you loved. But he'd gotten to the point where he could smile about the new collection of toys on the console without wanting to cry. The constant reminders of Yondu, everywhere he turned on the ship -- legacy of a childhood growing up in these same dingy steel corridors -- had come to be more an echo of nostalgia than a reminder of pain.

And now this, ripping the bandaid off something that had started to scar over, tearing it open to bleed again. And being hurt had always made him belligerent. 

"So are we not going to talk about the fact that you're dead, or what?" Peter demanded.

"You wanna talk about it?" Yondu asked.

"No!"

"Well, then."

Peter had almost forgotten how most conversations with Yondu tended to devolve into massive frustration at one point or another. "You had to go and fucking die before -- I mean, you couldn't just _say_ \-- couldn't say any of it, could you? Couldn't tell me the truth about Ego, couldn't tell me any damn thing while there was still _time."_

Yondu glanced away, gaze flicking to the forward viewport. "Don't know if not tellin' you about Ego was the right thing or not. Figured if I did tell ya', you'd go haring off across the galaxy to find him. Which, I gotta say, is exactly what happened --"

"Yeah, because the one person who _knew_ that my father was a rotten bastard who killed his other kids _didn't tell me!"_

"Told you I did it all wrong, Quill --"

"Would you stop saying that?" Peter punched the bulkhead, getting a narrow-eyed look from Yondu. "... ow," he muttered, rubbing his fist. "You _didn't,_ okay? Not all of it. It's just -- God, this isn't how I wanted this conversation to go. I just -- there's so much to say, you know? So much we didn't get a chance to say, because _you_ went and fucking _died."_

Yondu half-smiled, shifting to turn towards Peter. "What we got to say, anyway, that we ain't already said?"

"Everything!" Peter said in disbelief. "We haven't talked about _anything!"_

"See, that's your problem right there, Quill. You never met a situation you didn't want'a talk to death. Always been that way, ever since you was a little kid."

"The point," Peter said between his teeth, "is that you up and died on me, and it ripped my heart out, you know that?"

Yondu caught his breath as if someone had punched him. He looked away, staring out at the cold stars. "Tell you the truth ... didn't think you'd miss me all that much."

"You fucking _idiot,"_ was all Peter could manage, and then he did the thing he'd thought he'd never be able to do again, hadn't done since he was a kid and pretty rarely even then: he wrapped his arms around Yondu and hugged him.

The Ravagers, in general, were a tactile bunch, and Peter had grown up accustomed to their rough-and-tumble variety of affection. He was used to having his back slapped, his shoulder punched, his hair ruffled; having Yondu, or someone else, throw a friendly arm around his shoulders wasn't that unusual. But actual hugs had been few and far between, growing up. He felt Yondu stiffen in shock, and half expected to be pushed away (this had happened a couple of times when he was a kid; mostly he'd tended to hug Yondu when he wasn't thinking, forgot who he was dealing with, and instinct took over, and Yondu didn't always react that well to it). After that first tense, startled moment, though, a cautious hand settled on the middle of Peter's back, a light touch of uncertain reciprocation.

"You _died,"_ Peter choked into Yondu's shoulder, his cheek pressed against the oh-so-familiar stained leather coat. "You died, and you're not really here, and I _know_ that, and I just -- can't --"

"Shhhh." Gentleness, like hugs, had been a scarce commodity when he was a kid, but there had been times that Yondu had soothed him like this when he was small; he'd all but forgotten, it had been so long ago, and so many of the warmer memories had been trampled under the bitter ones. Now the scarred, strong hand curled around the back of his neck, and Peter pressed his cheek against Yondu's coat and, for a few moments, he just tried to remember how to breathe.

When Peter finally extracted himself, trying to dash surreptitiously at his eyes, Yondu grinned at him and pressed Peter's shoulder briefly with his hand. "So what're you all doin' out in the V'ras Nebula area?" he asked casually, as if the two of them had just happened to run into each other on a job.

Peter cleared his throat, pulling himself together. "Gamora got us a job guarding an ore refinery. Not super exciting or anything, but it pays the fuel and oxygen bills 'til we can find something better."

"Ah yeah, done a fair few of those kinds of jobs myself. That green gal's got a good head on 'er shoulders, by the way. You got a good crew."

It was a little easier for Peter to smile this time. "Don't even think about snaking 'em out from under me."

"Ha. I wouldn't. Anyway, don't think they'd go. They'd walk through fire an' hell for you."

Peter wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so he looked out the forward viewport again, and frowned. There was something out there. Peter started to lurch forward to get to the controls, but Yondu caught his arm.

"No worries, kid. It's just that my ride's here."

The sensors claimed there was nothing out there. Peter couldn't quite make out the details; it was like his eyes couldn't quite focus on it, that mysterious something filling the forward viewport, glimmering like starshine.

"What _is_ that, exactly?" Peter whispered.

"Well, that's my ship." Yondu leaned forward; the light of that odd ship, like none Peter had seen in a lifetime of traversing the spaceways, lit his face though it illuminated nothing else around him. "That thing the Ravagers say, what we've always said, when one of us dies -- that we'll see you in the stars -- you think it was just talk? Where you _think_ we go?"

"So you believe in that stuff now?" Peter couldn't help asking.

"Hard not to when it's staring me in the face, ain't it? I always did believe my own eyes first and foremost."

"They gave you a funeral, you know," Peter said softly. "With all the colors. I hope you know that."

"I know they did. An' you know what else?" Yondu pointed a blunt finger at him. "They'll do it for you one day too. 'cuz you a Ravager, boy. You always gonna be a Ravager. The stars are your home, so there's a spot saved for you on that ship out there and I better see you there, one of these days, else I gotta go drag your tail back home myself."

Peter's throat kept trying to close up on him, but he managed to say hoarsely, "If you think I'm gonna settle for a spot on _your_ ship when I could have a weird-ass light ship of my own, you must've got your brains scrambled out there."

This startled Yondu into a sudden, hoarse laugh and one of his wide grins, the ones that lit up his face and gave Peter a glimpse of the person he might have been, and in some ways still was, even after all the things that a lifetime of slavery, betrayal, and his own greed had done to him. "You know there's always a place for you on any ship o' mine. But anyhow, between now and then, maybe we'll run into each other once in awhile anyways. Like tonight. Whole lot of universe to see, whole lot of chances to meet up again."

Peter took a deep breath. "So you're ... leaving."

"Sure am. I got my things to do. You got yours. Always been that way with us, ain't it? Oh, hey." Yondu reached into his coat. "Almost forgot. Here."

Startled, Peter took the object from his fingers -- a little glass ball on a base. When he tilted it, bits of white confetti fluttered through the ball. "What's this?"

"Picked it up on Terra. Thought you might like it. You always did like snow, when we was on planets that had it, back when you was a kid. Like to run around in it an' stuff."

"I still do," Peter murmured. "Can't believe you remember that. Though I guess, if you're a figment of my imagination, of course you do." He tilted the ball upright; the confetti-snow fluttered slowly and gracefully to settle over tiny molded plastic mountains and trees. "So when were you on Earth?"

"Jus' recently. Wanted to see it, the place you were from. For more than five minutes in the middle of the night, anyhow." Yondu shrugged. "Couldn't ever go back while Ego was huntin' you. No reason not to now."

"No reason except that you're _dead."_ Peter tilted the ball again, watched the snow swirl around. Otherwise he'd have to look at Yondu, and he just couldn't. "Is that why you never took me back to Earth? All those years I asked you to?"

Yondu snorted. "Asked? More like demanded, cried, whined ..."

"Hey! There was .... minimal crying involved."

Yondu grinned his sharp-edged smile, but it dropped away, gave way to something more serious and soft. "Wasn't lettin' Ego get his hands on another kid, not if I could help it."

Peter punched him in the arm. Hard.

"Hey, boy, is that any way to treat your --"

"You don't think you could have maybe _told_ me some of this, _idiot?"_ Peter demanded. "You really thought letting me spend my whole life thinking you were some asshole who abducted me just to be a dick was the best way to do things?"

"Think I don't know that? Told you I done it all wrong, didn't I? But you know somethin'." Peter flinched in surprise when Yondu reached out and laid his hand along the side of Peter's face -- a gut-punching echo of that _other_ time, except Yondu's hand was warm as he cupped Peter's face lightly with a callused palm and fingers. "I didn't do right by you most of the time, but _you_ \-- there was never nothin' wrong about _you,_ Peter. You was the one damn thing I ever got mixed up with that turned out _good."_

And with that, Peter startled awake.

He lay still in the pilot's chair for a few minutes staring out the viewport at the stars (no ship of light out there, of course, just the usual pinprick sparks in the dark void, and the glittering lights of the orbital refinery in its asteroid field), while the dream sensation of Yondu's hand faded slowly from his skin. One earbud was in his ear, the other down on his shoulder, and the song playing was that Cat Stevens one, because of course it was.

The stars blurred. Peter touched his face and found it wet.

"You asshole," he said hoarsely.

He set the Zune aside and got up because he had to do something, move a little, walk off the grief like a sore muscle that could be exercised to ease away the pain. At least it beat the hell out of most of the dreams he'd been having lately, even if it hurt to wake up from.

Somewhere else on the ship, music was playing softly: U2, Peter thought, coming from Rocket's workshop if he were going to guess. He smiled despite himself, swiped a hand across his eyes one final time, and turned around.

And stared.

When he'd fallen asleep, there had been two little trinkets on the steering console. He was sure of it. He'd bought the four-eyed puppy, and Kraglin had gotten the little lizard thing.

Now there were three.

Cautiously, slowly, Peter picked up the snowglobe. He tilted it and watched the miniature blizzard swirl in a slow-motion vortex as he turned it back upright and gently, very gently, set it back with the others.

_You always did like snow ..._

And now that he thought about it, he'd heard stories, hadn't he? Stories from other Ravagers, from privateers and smugglers, of just how weird it could get, out in the black. Stories that began with sentences like, _I heard this one from an old space-dog in a bar out Malport way, and I know it sounds crazy, but you should'a seen the way his eyes burned with the gods' own light when he told me,_ or _I can't really credit it now, an' I know there's a perfectly normal explanation, but you know how it gets when you've been out by yourself for too long, past the edge of beyond, when even the stars start talking to you, it seems like ..._

Peter had always harbored a cocky young rationalist's skepticism about those stories. All sailors had their tall tales. But that was before he'd seen some of the things he'd seen. Glowing stones that could destroy all of creation, a mad god out to turn the galaxy into part of himself ...

And maybe, just maybe, speaking to the beloved dead in the gulf between the stars wasn't actually as weird as life could get. Not by a long shot.

"See you in the stars, old man," Peter murmured, and when he took the pilot's seat again, he was smiling.

  
[Fanart by dis4daria on Tumblr](http://dis4daria.tumblr.com/post/162215085239/guess-who-is-still-not-over-guardians-of-the)


End file.
